A Simple Gym Wish

Why is it that the older and fatter a man is, the more likely they are to walk around the gym locker room without a towel around their waist?

It’s a strange correlation that, unfortunately, has been repeatedly proven true.

Can someone explain this phenomenon to me? Does this inhibition occur naturally as one ages? Forty years from now, am I going to stand in public, think to myself, “To hell with that” and just walk around pantless?

I would really like for someone to explain this to me….

Actually, I take that back. I don’t want to know. I just want it to stop.

Please make it stop.

Deer, Oh Dear

Its hard when you spot a deer to not immediately go to the image of Bambi’s mother and the emotional trauma that follows.

So it was this past weekend when a doe wandered into the field behind the family home and plopped down below a tree, that the thought occurred to me how much that deer looked liked Bambi. (Actually, all deer kind of look like Bambi.)

This doe was sitting beneath a half-fallen tree, content as can be. Shortly after laying down, a ginormous 8-point buck showed up that looked like an elephant with horns.

As an aside, years ago I was making a snowman at night. After rolling the base of my creation, I spotted a deer closing in from the side of the house, lurking in the shadows. This deer had horns and – I believed at the time and still do – that the deer was in attack formation, readying to come after me like the vicious beast it appeared to be.

Needless to say, I yelped and ran inside for cover.

However, the rest of the family laughed at me for years as no one ever spotted this elusive deer with horns…until this past Saturday. It may have taken eight years, but I finally feel vindicated!

Now back to our originally scheduled program…

This buck looked like it was checking on the doe and even sat on the ground next to it. It was…adorable. The buck eventually left, but the doe remained, sitting in the same spot. Dad believed it was resting; Mom thought it was hurt.

Either way, we let the deer be.

Throughout the day, the deer remained sitting. But soon, a scary neighborhood cat walked across the field. The deer tried to get up and run away from the pet cat – it was quite the cowardly deer – but immediately collapsed.

Clearly, it was hurt.

After trying to get a hold of the Humane Society, the policy department, Ghostbusters, Deer Removal Ltd. and the Pennsylvania Gaming Commission, we turned to the next best source – a known hunter.

He mentioned the possibility of the deer being pregnant, but admitted that it was a little late in the season for that. Apparently, deer procreation is on a very tight schedule. Since deer are most active at night, the hunter suggested waiting to see if it was still there in the morning.

The next day, the deer was there.

And the PA Gaming Commission was on their way with their “deer misery reliever” tool, which also doubles as a rifle when needed. When he arrived, I was out and about so the next section is all hearsay -

The Gaming Commission Dude spotted the deer lying motionless on the ground. It didn’t look good.

He walked across the field, getting closer and closer to the deer. When a mere five feet away, the once presumed dead deer jumped up and bolted away into the woods lining the field. All the Gaming Commission Dude could do was shrug his shoulders.

My Father joined up with the guy. The deer was still only twenty yards away when it lifted its tail and dropped a two-sie, making its feelings known on having been disturbed from its resting place.

The Gaming Commission Dude, God bless him, went up and inspected the deer dung for blood. It was a clean dump which, apparently, means the deer had no internal bleeding. Hooray for the deer.

We then learned many wonderful facts about deer and their incredible resiliency. As long as it doesn’t get gangrene and the winter isn’t particularly tough, the deer would probably survive.

When told about the buck keeping tabs on the doe – who my Mother believes was the doe’s mate – the Gaming Commission Dude had a different take on it. His theory was this buck spotted a single female and was merely trying to put the moves on the doe. While Mom holds steady in their thoughts of undying deer love romanticism, the rest of us subscribe to the “chasing skirts” theory as the buck’s main motivation for being there.

It was at this point that I returned from my errands and was told the above story. Personally, I call B.S. and doubt any of it happened. My theory is that this was a classic, “Well Jimmy, your goldfish is fine; its just in a big fish bowl up in the sky with all of its fishy friends” moment.

I’m not nearly as naïve as Jimmy so I still maintain they just put the deer out of its misery and hauled the carcass away. In the meantime, they concocted the above “miracle leap” to help soften the news of its death to Mom. However, despite my convictions, Dad did not budge on the story of the deer that looked mortally wounded before looking dead then becoming full of life and vitality as it magically lept on all fours to escape the PA Gaming Commission Dude.

Finally, we were part of a deer story without the tragedy and uncontrollable sobbing that comes with watching Bambi. Assuming the doe truly walked away on its own, I can honestly say I was involved in a moment where Mother Nature put aside her cruelty and showed that she can be compassionate to God’s creatures.

Or, it seemed that way until Mom got a phone call Monday evening saying they found the deer in a neighbor’s backyard and had to put it down since it was acting lethargic and looked to be in bad shape.

Oh well.

C’est la vie.

I Smell a Rat

When I recently joined a gym, I was flooded with many welcomes as I toured the facility. During my walk through, my tour guide explained the various rules and regulations, many of which you would find at any other gym – wipe the equipment down when you’re done, wear sandals in the shower, and so on.

A couple days after joining, I soon found myself in situations that my tour guide neglected to go over.

Behind a row of cardio-equipment are some weightlifting machines. The ones I use focus on the leg muscles. I adjusted the seat, sat down, set the weight, and began pushing and lifting my legs in various directions. It was a strenuous workout that left my legs tired. As an unexpected side effect, my neck muscles got a rigorous workout as well.

You see, while sitting at the leg exercising machines, my line of sight happened to be even with the rear ends of all those increasing their heart rate on the cardio machine.

My eyes, their butts, all on an even playing field.

Whoever designed the facility neglected to consider the “pupil-to-bottoms” conundrum because, otherwise, they would have staggered the weightlifting and cardio machines. There I was, working on my quads while the focal point of my field of vision was the derriere of a woman using the stair-master in front of me.

I tried not to stare forward for too long as I was resting between reps. The last thing I wanted was to develop a reputation as a perv, even if it was an innocent mistake. I also didn’t want to keep moving my head around, left to right, up and down, fearing that the motion would bring unwanted attention my way.

As I rolled my neck, trying to vary the objects in my line of sight, I prayed that no one would come up and ask what’s wrong with my neck. Or, more awkwardly, ask me what was wrong with this woman’s bum that I kept trying to avoid looking at.

“Well there is nothing wrong with her bum and my neck is just fine, thank you very much.”

I was in an uncompromisable position for which there were no signs hanging on the wall, explaining what I should do. That wasn’t the only directionless situation I found myself in. There are other fears that I didn’t see disclosed on any of the brochures or posted on any of the warning signs scattered throughout the facility.

My greatest fear is that one day, I will accidentally – yes, accidentally – walk into the woman’s locker room.

There are simple signs hanging from the ceiling with one reading “Men’s Locker Room” and the other “Women’s Locker Room.” While there are arrows pointing to their respective entrances, this is all dependent on one to look up. Since my neck is usually sore from trying to avoid perceived leering, looking up is not always viable.

With a public restroom, I at least have the luxury of doors decorated with a rectangular bottom figure, indicating I’m about to walk into the men’s room. If there’s a figure with a triangular bottom representing a skirt, I know right away that I need the next door down.

At the gym, there is no door.

A small walkway, a quick left turn then a quick right and you’re in the locker room. It very much follows the layout of a highway rest stop. Unlike the highway rest stop though, there’s no urinals to greet me. There is a subtle relief when you first spot those porcelain indicators because its at that moment that you officially know you are in the right place (assuming you’re rocking an XY chromosome pair).

In the locker room, you are greeted merely by lockers. Simple, brown lockers. Having never seen the women’s locker room, I can only assume they look nearly identical. Although, it is possible the women might have pink lockers with bedazzled handles with perfume scented hinges and mirrors on the doors to help them apply their makeup.

Of course, this is all just conjecture at this point.

Before making the treacherous trek to the locker room where an embarrassing game of Russian roulette takes place as I decide which walkway to go through, I stopped by the gymnasium to shoot some hoops.

As I walked in, the court was crowded with guys stretching along the walls, lacing up their sneakers, and some shooting jumpers from the same spot on the floor. I crossed the court and noticed there was only one basketball remaining on the rack. I picked it up and noticed how small it seemed.

Was it deflated?

No, it had a good bounce to it.

Have my hands unexpectedly grown from my vigorous workouts?

Seems unlikely.

It may have been out-of-order, but there was no sign to say so.

This left only one other option – the object I was holding in my hands was the ladies’ ball.

I looked around, hoping no one would notice as I took the ladies ball. I debated in my mind for several minutes whether I should take it or leave it. There was no sign to guide me to the correct decision. If I was in a bathroom and the only available stall was the handicap one, I would probably use it – actually, I know I would use it, especially in an emergency situation. If there was a handicap person in the restroom, I would by all means let him take it.

Looking around, there were no women in the gym.

So I took the ball.

Part of my logic concluded that this could not be the only ladies’ ball in the gym; that would mean there was another dude shootin’ hoops with the chick ball. As I dribbled towards a hoop, I would occasionally pause and squeeze the ball with both hands so others could witness my frustration with being forced to use such a tiny ball. I felt more masculine, but still a little concerned by the dainty rock I was rockin’.

In between jump shots, I thought about what would happen If a woman walked into the gym. Was I obligated to give up the lady ball to her? Would that be gym protocol or just the gentlemanly thing to do?

Unfortunately, there was no sign hanging from the ceiling to point me in the right direction.

During my time there, no women walked into the gym. But soon, a group of guys started to gather around the far hoop. A voice hollered, “Do you want in?”

“Sure,” I replied, not really sure what I just agreed to. As I walked towards the group, I subtly bounced the lady’s ball towards the rack, thus discarding of the evidence. When I reached the crowd, I was directed to shoot the ball, which I missed.

Another guy shot and missed as well.

No one gave any indication what I was supposed to do next. Someone eventually bounced a ball in my direction and I took it upon myself to try another shot.

Only this time, I totally swished it!

I was told that my prize for making the shot was a spot on Team 2; I really didn’t know anything about Team 2; we haven’t really met. I was also somewhat unfamiliar with Team 1. And I have no idea if there was a Team 3 or not; this was all new to me and I was clearly undergoing a learning process.

As the players started to line up, I quickly realized we were about to play a 5-on-5 game of basketball. Okay, lets disclose this right now – I am not in the best of shape. I wasn’t in any shape at all, really. I just got done lifting weights as well as running on the elliptical bike and even walked a few laps.

Needless to say, my legs were a little tired.

I felt like I was D.J from that one Full House episode where she transformed into a gym rat and over-worked herself at the gym so she could fit in her bathing suit for an upcoming friend’s party. Unlike D.J., I didn’t have Kimmy Gibler or the suave and folliclely-tastic Uncle Jesse to save me from the pain and physical exhaustion that was surely about to come my way.

And I didn’t need a sign to tell me that.

I put my reservations aside and assumed that I could at least muster enough energy for a half court game of basketball. Unfortunately, we were going to play a full court game of basketball.

It took two possessions for my legs to give in.

After three possessions, it hurt to breathe.

By the time the fifth possession game arrived, I was jumping towards the rim in a reckless fashion, praying that I would land on top of another player’s shoes and roll my ankle, thus providing me a graceful exit from the game so that I may live to see another day.

The gym goes month-to-month so I’m not bound to any contract; whenever I want out, I give 30 days notice and I’m clean free. However, as part of my agreement, they make no mention as to how one exits a basketball game. There were no TV timeouts to save me or even substitutions to relieve me.

I thought about giving the guys a 30 second notice before walking out, but I didn’t have the wind to speak.

As my team ran back on defense, I found the slowest opponent to guard. These guys were running at full speed, making sharp cuts, and jumping with an unbridled enthusiasm for the rebound. While they were setting picks and calling out plays, yelling, “Iso! Iso!” I had my hands on my knees, screaming “Uncle! Uncle!” hoping the pain would stop, but the words left my mouth in a mere whimper.

I had to find a way out. There was an element of pride involved. I couldn’t just abandon a game right in the middle. Then again, I could barely breathe. I felt I had no other choice then to place my hand right below my belly button and say, “Oh, menopause.”

I imagine the other guys would be slightly confused, but they also wouldn’t argue with me. I may even be able to solicit a sympathetic nod.

As baskets were made, I kept hoping that each one was a game winner. While running down the court, I was pulling additional hamstrings I didn’t even knew I had.

Eventually, someone made the game winning shot – was it my team? I don’t remember. As the other players headed for the water fountain, I bolted to the locker room to gather my things.

My shirt was marinated in sweat and I could feel my body encased in an impermeable shell of BO. With my bag draped over my shoulder, I slowly limped away like a battered old rat towards that gorgeous, beautiful glowing red exit sign.

Living with the Empire

I recently caught up with some old friends of ours from a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

After a careful viewing of Stars Wars Episode IV, something profound revealed itself to me. Something that for so long I and many others have overlooked despite how obvious it all was. Audiences around the world were enamored with the characters as they embarked on a fantastical adventure with strange aliens, classical heroes and villains, and phallic looking glowy sticks.

The film had so much going on thematically, that any perceived plot hole was dismissed as mere nitpicking from an outsider that didn’t “get it.”

After watching Star Wars for the umpteenth time, it occurred to me that it was never adequately explained just why the audience should hate the Empire and root for the Rebels.

Quite frankly, the Empire wasn’t all that bad.

The film opens with the Empire chasing a seemingly innocent spaceship occupied by supposed diplomats. This opening scene, coupled with the appearance of a man dressed in black stepping onto the ship while ominous music played led audiences everywhere to assume that these were the bad guys. Based purely on appearances, the Empire was given a bad rap from the beginning. That’s pure stereotyping and one we, as a culture, should not condone even in outer space.

I thought we evolved beyond that. But I guess not.

Our opinions were formed before we fully understood what was at stake. It was never explained why this diplomatic ship was being chased. The implications of the information smuggled aboard R2D2 was never fully disclosed.

The only thing presented to the viewers was this black machine wearing a big helmet who went by the name Darth Vader. The reality is that ole Darth could have just been a robotic brotha cruising the galaxy with his crew.

If he was named Ron instead, we would have a different movie on our hands. The fact the guy’s name was Darth didn’t necessarily make him a bad person nor did it justify us hating the Empire. Sure, Ron Vader may sound more huggable than Darth Vader. But we must put aside our preconceived notions if we want to consider ourselves enlightened.

Hug Darth too.

I guess if the Empire were the bad guys, then our heroes of this story must surely be the Rebel Alliance, the faction in the galaxy that the audience was destined to throw their support behind. The blonde haired kid looking out at the setting suns after his aunt and uncle were brutally murdered in the desert? How could you not root for that guy and his band of cohorts.

The problem that I have is that we truly never know what the Rebel Alliance was rebelling against. Yes, we know they were fighting the Empire, but what were their motives? I think we the audience deserved a more detailed explanation for what the Rebel Alliance was fighting for. Perhaps they wanted more representation to go long with the increased taxation, a popular axiom for all rebelling colonies. But George Lucas, that nutty old goose, neglected to adequately explain the tax structure that the Empire had in place.

Quite frankly, I think the Rebels missed the star cruiser on this one. If they ever took the time to see what the Empire was accomplishing, the Rebels may have been more inclined to help in the efforts as opposed to killing innocent citizens and impeding galactic development.

It was apparent that the Empire was clearly a government focused on the galactic economy. There was no greater symbol of this than the Death Star project. Do you know how many jobs that created? That’s just to build the base too; we’re not even counting the jobs needed to occupy and run the ship as well as the maintenance and upkeep. In addition, these were all reoccurring costs thanks to the Rebel Alliance who kept blowing the darned thing up.

Some loyal fanboys may argue that the complete destruction of the planet Alderaan proved the Empire was truly evil, but I must disagree. The Rebels stole vital plans concerning the Death Star, which they intended to use for destructive purposes. Lives were at stake and the Empire clearly had a stance of not negotiating with terrorists.

And if it hasn’t occurred to you yet, let me break it to you Yoda style – Terrorist, Luke Skywalker was.

He lived in the desert; hung out with an old man with a suspiciously long beard; banded with a known smuggler and criminal in Hans Solo; and sneaked onto the Death Star and other Empire facilities with the intent to cause harm and take lives.

Terrorism, that is!

When the Death Star blew up Alderaan, some may argue that the Empire used excessive force. I for one fully support the Empire’s stance on not negotiating with terrorists. While the destruction of the planet took lives, the action was done to help prevent the further lose of life elsewhere in the galaxy.

I admit that things weren’t all fine and dandy with the Empire though. For one, their uniforms were a little drab, but I wouldn’t start a rebellion over the dress code. Despite their bland look, you can’t deny that their halls were quite neat in their star cruisers despite the heavy amount of foot traffic and robo-wheel traffic from the droids.

Despite paying close attention to the film, I found no reason to rebel against the Empire. While some may question their tactics, the worst you could say was that Darth Vader and the stormtroopers were simply misunderstood.

If you listen to a conversation at the beginning of the film, General Tarkin – the Eminem to Vader’s Dre – explained the Emperor’s plan to dissolve the government and return power to the individual galactic governments. Instead of focusing on a big government having to rule over separate and distinct galaxies, the Emperor was smart enough to recognize that impossibility and opted for a smaller government. The Emperor realized that each star systems had their own needs that could be best met by a local government.

During this transition of power, the Empire had most of their budget focused on defense spending. Again, nothing worth rebelling over. If the Rebellion ever dissolved, then the Empire would be able to cut defense spending and perhaps divert some funds towards education and other admirable projects.

Of course, we may never know what other projects and plans that the Empire had in store. Whatever they were, I’m sure the Rebels would find something wrong with it and neglect to let anyone know what their alternatives are. However, that wouldn’t stop audiences everywhere from blindly rooting for the Rebels to destroy the Empire’s well-intentioned programs while neglecting to realize just how well the rest of the galaxy could have had it if only they would have given the Empire a fair chance.

A Cagen Recipe

INGREDIENTS

1 Long-haired Nicolas “Nick” Cage.

1 Blonde babe.

1 Blazer.

2 1/2 Chase scenes.

1 Mysterious object.

3 Goons wearing suits.

1 Older, crew cut evil mastermind.

1 Burger King toy tie-in and/or talk show appearance.

7 Months of hype.

DIRECTIONS

Season Nicolas Cage by having wardrobe fit the long-haired thespian with a navy blue blazer.

Slowly stir in a mysterious object – a box with strange inscriptions? A tablet of sorts? – that in someway conveys the impending end of the world about to occur in 90 to 120 minutes, depending on the script. Let that simmer on a low heat.

Place Cage aside for a moment and whisk in a blonde babe in an unbelievable job position, such as the pinup girl theoretical physicist. Add large hooters for flavor and mix thoroughly.

Meanwhile, in a medium length scene, combine the goons with the evil mastermind in a delightful criminal caper. After letting that saute for a bit in a non-stick pan, top with the Cage and blonde babe mixture from earlier. Garnish with a young, comic-relief actor full of contrived jokes and a whimsical obliviousness to all of the plot holes.

Top with a melon salsa and lemon wedge.

Serve warm with a Conan O’Brien appearance.

This recipe could easily yield $150 million.